The Sweetest Suffering
by The Sith Virtuoso
Summary: Pain and death held no sway over Darth Sion, but upon encountering an enemy unlike any other, finds his agony put to the test. One shot. A para-romantic drama horror piece set in during the time of the Sith Triumvirate. Reviews are most appreciated!


**THE SWEETEST SUFFERING**

_"I hate you because you are beautiful to me…"_

* * *

Pain.

Suffering.

Death.

Three words that to the galaxy at large said enough of the Sith as a whole.

Even their underlings, the poor besotted fools they were, believed in that fantasy.

Of pain, he knew all too well.

Of suffering, he understood more perhaps than any who had come before.

In that pain was power, and pain was all he had.

He had denied death so many, many times—choosing instead to embrace, to _embody_ his agony.

Finally, death _itself_ abhorred him.

He had learned much from his teacher; and what a teacher she was. Every word was a lash, every instruction like a scourge.

How he _hated_ her. But he was grateful.

Once he was a slave to pain.

Now, he was its Lord and Master.

His hate had made him powerful. So much so that he had been able to strike down the deranged heretic who had shown him the path to immortality.

Of showing him the path, he begrudgingly gave her credit. But he _alone_ braved that road. Not even she dared go down into the hells that he and her _other _pupil had gone.

He found the _Other_ as repulsive as she had been.

_I never needed either of them._

He could have bested the decrepit old fool without _his _meddling, he believed.

Of the Other's power, he could not deny. 'Twas a different kind though. A _dead_ kind.

With that power had come a monstrous price. The Other was no longer a man.

Even he, the Lord of Pain, did not know what the self-anointed Lord of Hunger had become.

Such a matter meant nothing to him. A idle fancy for lesser minds without anything better to do.

The Other had earned his respect at least—he had gone a different route to power, but this potential rival he believed, had none over him.

That his rival was a wound in the Force? That his rival's mere presence tore apart life, screaming into oblivion as they were devoured utterly?

_Empty bravado_, he smugly thought.

So what if his rival could kill hundreds—thousands even with a mere whim? So what if that tale, that _he_ had wiped out every single lifeform on a backwater planet, was actually _true_?

The Other's power lay in death—so much so that one could say he was _dependent _on it.

Meanwhile, the Lord of Pain was _beyond_ death.

_Let him enjoy this a bit more_.

He was a patient man. He had no need to depend on anything but his torment and that was now a constant companion.

He could wait.

Treachery, after all, was the way of the Sith and a Sith indeed the Lord of Pain was.

_The _Dark Lord of the Sith, now that the old iconoclast was out of the equation. He would destroy his rival in time, but first there was the goal that had once and possibly will always unite the Sith until time itself dies.

The annihilation of their ancient enemy. The holocaust of the Jedi Order.

The final smothering of the light.

He would use his rival's strength to his advantage—the Lord of Hunger did not seem to have any ounce of subtlety. Given to grandiose displays of his admittedly impressive skills, commanding a fleet of dead ships, scouring world upon world of Jedi and whoever was unfortunate to pass in his way.

The Lord of Pain was not a sentimental man but he had an appreciation for subtlety. He had long opted a different approach.

He trained his underlings the very basics of his power, enough for them to fulfill their purpose—to strike from the shadows before their enemies even knew what was happening—and to delude them into thinking _they_ were to be heirs to his brand of immortality.

They were simply tools. Nothing more.

This power was his and _his _alone.

The vitriolic alliance he had once held with the Other and their deposed Master had systematically exterminated entire infestations of Jedi across the galaxy.

How they went scrambling like rats from a sinking ship, he mused.

Only few remained. What would have been a last bastion of light had been annihilated by his repulsive counterpart.

His only regret was that he did not get there first.

What Jedi remained afterward were akin to sputtering candles caught in the gales of a dark storm.

He truly believed that very soon their taint would be excised from the Galaxy. If he had his way, perhaps even from the annals of history itself.

_To destroy an enemy wins the battle, to erase them from memory wins the war._

So when he had heard from his scouts that a possible Jedi _General_ had survived, he personally leapt into action and had pursued this particular quarry through every single lead possible.

Soon enough, he had confirmed his target—a human female, otherwise nondescript –and wasted no time at all in moving to kill her.

It was easy enough to fake death and a temporary relief to have been in a self-imposed state of suspended animation within kolto. It was even more invigorating when the hapless crew of the Peragus facility had released him from his torpor.

Their fear and death—their torment akin to a delectable meal to his ravenous rage.

He had found it peculiar however when he could not sense his prey at all. Surely a Jedi General would have a powerful presence within the Force?

He had attempted to pierce what was like a fog in the Force surrounding his enemy and was met by a silent void. He, a master himself in hiding his own presence within the Force, had been utterly perplexed.

In the end, he was forced to conduct the hunt the old-fashioned way.

Truth be told, he did not mind. The air of mystery surrounding his foe had excited him. A new challenge, a new chance to test his ever expanding powers.

He did not fear his enemy at all. Death had no power over him. What could she possibly do that had not already been done to him a thousand times before?

What did he have to fear when he had become virtually unbeatable?

That was what he thought until the day he had actually seen _her _in the flesh.

_How…_his angry thoughts fumed, _how is she doing this?_

A human female of slight build and pleasing countenance with a face and form many a male and perhaps even some females would have said was attractive.

He was not even totally human anymore, but it would seem that that was still enough to let him feel in a way only a man could toward a woman.

The Lord of Pain would never be able to explain why he had stopped dead in his tracks when her terrified gaze met his—those of her would-be executioner.

He did not will it so but he could have sworn that his _heart_ had beat for the first time in ages.

With it came a most unfamiliar feeling—it was bliss to experience it, _ecstasy_ even.

_What is this power?_ He wanted to say, yet at the time nary a thought remained save for her.

Just her.

He later chastised himself for hesitating; in that crucial moment, she had managed to escape with the help of a ragtag band of fools and his one-time teacher.

How she had survived was beyond him. Darth Traya was powerful, of that he could not deny. But he had proven what he had always known in that skirmish.

He had grown far stronger than she ever had been.

_Her hand can speak for itself_, he thought savagely, reminiscing the wonderful pain he felt from his one-time teacher.

The ramshackle facility had then been destroyed in a fiery cataclysm brought about by that little battle.

Perhaps they had thought him dead.

He smirked in satisfaction; an explosion kill _him_?

Preposterous.

The heretic would know better, but the old Sith was shadow of her former self. A footnote in the new order that he would usher into the galaxy.

The motley crew that had come to his quarry's aid would be less than nothing in time.

But _she_…

* * *

Darth Sion's eyes snapped open, ending his meditative trance.

There _it_ was again. There was no mistaking of it.

A heartbeat.

Instinctively, he brought a hand over his chest—the universal gesture of humanoid beings suffering from a sick heart.

_How—_

The mere thought of the last Jedi brought him something unheard of...

_Is this…peace?_

He felt the Force flowing through him as his mind's eye recalled every feature of her.

She seemed as soft as he was hard.

He wanted to see her for real—to feel her…_touch _her.

The Sith Lord gritted his teeth and buried his face in his undying hands while the dark side of the Force quaked within him—impatient and angry at this juvenile display of sentimentality.

Alas, try as he might—the spectre of her remained in his mind, an ember of light in the void of his spirit.

Unspoken and yet _heard_.

Humble yet _glorious_.

The Lord of Pain was drawn to the light…a moth drawn to a flame, a man who had never once seen the light of day.

_Let go…_

The Force was calling to him—

_Let go…_

His breathing grew harsh while he drew on his pain, dropping forward into the earth of the forgotten moon on which he had chosen to recuperate for the time being.

Peals of thunder overhead served as the only answer to the multitude of questions that boiled in his tortured mind.

He had thought himself the master torturer.

Yet here and now, his pain was _leaving_ him and with it, his _life…_

Her ghost was a torture unlike any other…

Lashes that felt soft on his flayed skin…

Fire which served only to warm his dead spirit…

Her silence, music to his suffering ears…

He was drowning in _her_ light…

'Twas the sweetest suffering…

Ecstasy unlike any.

The dark side of the Force must have been desperate for then it spoke in damning tones with the voice of his hated master.

_To have fallen so far…and learned nothing. That is your failing! _

The blackest rage—the _purest_ taint—then seized the Lord of Pain mind, body and spirit.

With his fury came back his agony and at last the ghost was lain low.

His hate echoed through the bleak landscape and the crackling thunder overhead seeming to glorify in his suffering.

With a roar like his own, the sky overhead gave in to his tempest.

* * *

He stood in silence beneath the torrential rain.

_She will know the true power of the dark side, _he swore.

Their cold drops felt like countless knives on his ruined flesh.

The howling gales rattled his bones.

The sigh that left his cracked lips sent splinters through his throat.

One way or another, all this shall end, he knew.

One way or another—try as he might to deny—the ghost of her knew too.


End file.
